April 13, 2006

Just got back from my second session with the new counselor. But I'll get to that later. For now I want to announce that it is brown soup out there.

We are currently in what is known as Spring Breakup! Woohoo!

The daytime temps are between 40 and 60. Nighttime not so warm yet, as the thermometer is still dipping down to the 20s or even zero, but we are promised, have been promised for a month now, that those dips are limited and our forecasts are for clear, sunny weather!

That doesn't count, I suppose, the last two blizzards we endured this past week or so, and I'm still slipping and sliding on the messy, icey, porch coverings leftover from those surprise winter-wannabe attacks.

The snow is wet, like we don't usually get here in the desert. It is formable and inviting to be molded into snow balls... I just missed getting beaned myself the other day when I picked up my new glasses.

People are picking their heads up again, after a winter of keeping ducked down inside parka hoods, donning sunglasses and big grins that flash as bright as our returning Sun King.

And we are randy. Very randy.

Why, just last week I saw a guy at the store that had long curly hair, about my age I'm guessing, and he looked just like Jean-Hughes Anglade from the French movie, Queen Margot, and I almost threw the truck in park and chased him down, right there, in the parking lot tackling him to the ground.

So what if one leg was shorter than the other one? We're all the same size laying down.

And just now, at the post office ... my gawd, there was this looker climbing down out of a big truck in his Carharts, with a long braided pony tail down his back and he went in to get his mail, while I blasted the last of a Led Zeppelin song to its chorus; he climbed back up into his rig, I went in to get my mail and ... he waited to see me come out, to get a frontal view ... and he still waited, till the song came to its window-shattering conclusion ... and then I realized, he was eating a snack, graham crackers, not looking at me, not like that.

I grinned at my foolishness as I through the truck in reverse to make a quick escape, but for a couple of seconds there, I was feeling pretty all right, you know? Like I was going to make it out of this hellhole after all. It didn't matter whether or not the flirt was genuine, what mattered was that it entertained me briefly and in that captured moment of possibility, I realized I was ready to join the party again.

And with that admission, the announcement of spring randy celebration, and rabbits and arctic hares criss-crossing my yard, some leaving giant footprints as big as my own in the melting snow ... it must be time to make my move to the new and improved site, with a new domain name claimed by my own flag, thanks to the artistic and computer genius of the Mighty T, I hereby put up the detour sign to the new neighborhood:

March 20, 2006

Happy Spring, everybody! I am so jealous of you in the lower 48 who are already planting ... it will be another two full months before I even begin to see the ground, let alone be able to turn over the earth with a shovel. A pick, maybe...

I am hoping you all have beautiful warm air and sunshine. It is blindingly bright here when the sun comes out, reflecting off the snow and ice, but welcome. The daytime air temperature is slowly climbing up to a stable double-digit on the plus side of the thermometer; nighttime is staying above zero. The trees have shaken off their winter mantles, with the help of the winds, to better enable their awakening processes. The deep-freeze coolant is now being signaled by the sun's rays, to begin dissapating. Soon, sap will begin to run.

Can you hear them yawning? I think I can see them stretching up taller.

A wonderful lady is working on a new site for me to move to, soon. Just a little bit more tweaking and it will be ready for a housewarming. Literally. I expect gifts. (Just kidding.)

I will let you know with an invite. Actually, it has been ready for several months, but I have been too preoccupied with other things to pay any attention to it. As it is the first day of spring, I thought now would be good to devote some time to its growth.

Get out, get some sun and fresh air, walk around the block! I'm going to. Well, if we had blocks. And, if the dogs weren't dragging me, I could probably walk upright, normal like. But, you get the drift.

March 13, 2006

March has come in with a roar. The weatherman has promised that this last -40 below cold snap is winter's final throes and that spring is on its way. As of NOW.

The cold was good for the ice carvers! The annual international ice sculpting competition is underway and this year has a lot of energy infused. There are the usual teams flying in from both Russia and China that I know of, but I haven't really been paying attention. [edit: as I scroll hopelessly intrigued through page after page of wondrous sculptures, I see people from all over the planet here for this thing. People are even coming from the Cold Block! (get it? lol...)]

I know last night was the official opening of the ice sculpture park with a fur fashion show, attended by Gov. Murkowski (as usual) and a surprise guest: John Leguizamo!

I would have liked to go in to town to see that talented young man, if I had felt better and more sure of my driving in the dark. I bet he was a hoot and a half. I'm wondering if there is some kind of movie about ice or snow opening soon which he is involved in and this was some kind of media stunt. Long way to go for PR. That's like at least an 8-hour flight from here to anywhere in the lower 48. He must have wanted to see US! Yeah, that's it. And our one-of-a-kind "Diamond Ice" used in the sculptures. No where else does it freeze this crystal clear and hard, the water bubbling up from underground streams, pure, and the few cold snaps in January and Februrary that plunged that water into cryostasis, creating the perfect medium for the artists and their chisels and chainsaws.

Here are some links to the park where this year they have set up a couple of dozen webcams:

John Leguizamo, the voice of Sid in the ICE AGE movies, and Alaska
State Gov. Frank Murkowski arrived at the ICE AGE - MELTDOWN park by
dog sled on Sunday night. They stood before a cheering crowd as they
cut through a ribbon of ice with a pair of flaming 100,000 BTU propane
tourches officially opening the park for use. The whole show was
captured by five Ice Alaska web cams and sent out to the World Wide
Web, pictures updating every minute.

A 20th Century Fox tie-in. That explains the Ice Age ice park made for the kiddies and the big bucks it took to fly John Leguizamo up here probably in a private plane, other wise, no way would he have volunteered for this gig. It was -20 last night. At least. With the wind whipping the snow off the trees like a bad boy, it probably felt more like -50 below. I wonder if his teeth chattered during his monologue. Wish I could have been there. I love his work. I wouldn't have cared if his teeth was chattering. I'd a found a bottle of schnapps and tossed it up on the ice stage for him.

First Place Abstract went to the Russians for "The Fiddler" ... I guess for the fine fiddle strings. I wonder how many attempts it took to make those? I don't really get the abstract stuff.

Here are some of my favorites, as I see teams from around the world, joining up with Americans and others (these artists compete all winter, all over the world, in multiple contests, and I'm sure make friends and plans, over schnapps.)

For kitty lovers, "Male Ego" showing how the domestic cat really sees himself, when he looks in the mirror:

Third Place Realistic Artist's Choice Award went to an American duo of women who crafted that toothy deep-sea fish that wears the headlamp to "Allure" its little fishy prey into its cavernous jaws:

First Place Realistic went to the USA/Japan team for "Beach Walker" I guess for his antennas:... but I confess, I don't really understand the criteria on which they base their decisions.

For example, First Place Realistic in the multi-block competition went to the USA team for "Balto's Charge" which is a rendition of a (cartoon?) dog sled team racing straight down a craggy mountain side (not very realistic) but if you notice the fine lines connecting the dogs to their harnesses, all made from ice, it boggles the mind how they created both the taught lines and the ones to the lead dogs which are slack.

I find it more than a little bit coincidental that we are currently in the middle of yet another sled-dog mushing race at the moment, this one ending in Nome (they're over halfway there already) and that 20th Century Fox chose lucky us and our annual ice sculpture competition to exploit for the opening of one of their new cartoons ... based on the Ice Age ...

... and the Big Winner is (surprise!) a sculpture of a dog sled! Featured in a cartoon!

But that's just me. Personally, I liked the mermaid. Forget that I dream I can swim underwater forever while breathing through my gills, looking for underwater treasures.

Have fun checking out the photos and live web cams, I know I always do and it's so much more pleasant here, tucked away in the warmth away from the arctic wind, where, before I even reach the second exhibit, or can clumsily fish a wadded up kleenex out of my coat pocket, the snot running down from my nose inevitably, unelegantly, freezes to my face.

I honestly did not realize that the entire month of February had passed without me making an entry. I have been getting subtle nudges, I guess you could call them, little covert nods from here and there to come up for air.

February was a bad month. Really bad. There was that whole Valentine's thing in the middle, which seemed to spread out and infect the rest of the month with little red heart-shaped measles.

I put myself in quarantine.

The counselor really has been no help, whatsoever. In fact, I don't think I have ever met with anyone in the mental health care community, on either side of the couch, both as a counselor myself, or as a client seeking help, where the person who is supposed to be fully trained in the art of non-personal detachment and other tools of professionalism have been so trashed and ignored.

I do believe, if I am to get any work done, if I am able to learn any new skills about coping with grief, I'm going to have to keep shopping around for a better, mo' bettah salve spreader.

It's just little things the counselor says and does that signal the alarm deep inside that this person is not qualified to be sitting over there, helping me. For example, I was told that the last two sessions were the first time this professional has felt that I have been honest. I am thinking that since my blow up on Valentine's Day where I threatened to keep shopping around and was talked out of it, I maintain that the following two sessions were the first times the counselor actually listened to what I was saying, not distracted by a non-ending stream of furious scribbling of notes, nor the intense consumption of cookies or candies, and that uncomfortable silence when I had finished saying my peace that caught the sage in the uncomfortable position of having just taken a large bite and was now making a face, a dramatic pose that pantomimed someone deep in thought, trying to phrase the next potent question, while the mouth tried to re-arrange, inconspicuously, the huge bite that had not yet been masticated to a point of being able to wrap the mouth around words that could be understood, trying to squeeze themselves out between flying cookie crumbs or melting caramel nougat.

But the winner was: "I thought all bikers were meth dealers. And belonged in gangs. So, your husband was different, in that he had a job? He went to work for a living, correct?"

Like I was just telling Idyllopus, if I had buried Himself, he would have been spinning in his grave.

Perhaps I used the wrong word: biker. Himself was right -- when discussing this noun one should use the term "motorcycle enthusiast." Think ... Jay Leno.

One time I got a lecture on proper word usage from the counselor when I described terrible dizzy spells where I was "bouncing off the walls," which was translated immediately into: I'm going crazy and need to be heavily medicated.

It took me a half hour to get through that bog, trying to explain that I meant literally I was banging into walls from a physical ailment, not climbing the walls from a manifesting psychosis.

I would have thought that if one were truly listening, one would have gotten that from the context of the phrase being used in its entirety within the sentence. But no, I got a lecture on using the wrong word: bouncing as opposed to banging.

These knee-jerk reactions make me nervous. When one is poised on one's recliner, just listening for buzz words used in textbooks, key phrases to pounce on, any excuse to launch once again into the argument that if I would just let her mass medicate me, it would make her job "so much easier;" I might as well write political on my blog and let the professionals at the DHS listening posts take over the job of monitoring me and my mind.

So, I will keep shopping. I do believe that one is supposed to leave one's counseling sessions feeling somewhat relieved and hopeful, not more anxious, frustrated and/or pissed off.***

[continued in Part II, because I changed pages, becoming too enthusiastic for the time and space]

January 27, 2006

Currently the thermometer on the front porch reads -57. It's been stuck there since last night. The heater has been kicking on almost constantly, since yesterday evening. I tossed and turned all night long, sweating, I think because the heater is sucking up all the oxygen in the house in order to run.

The news guy just announced that only "essential personnel" are to report to duty, including the fire service, police, ambulance, military, everybody. All others are to report to their supervisors by telephone. I imagine they're even having to send a specially equipped heavy-duty vehicle around to collect those essential people, because hardly anybody's vehicles will be working today.

I can't believe I just saw that announcement on the news. I've never seen that before. Last night on the news there was a trooper saying that the roads were a mess of accidents, too many, the roads are a mess, they are like hard, slick, hand-blown glass. The temperatures up here do funny things to our roads. When it gets this cold there is a "hard freeze" that happens, unlike you've ever seen in any other American town, I bet. Your hard freeze is much different than ours. You can't imagine how weird normal responses become when subjected to these temperatures. There is definitely a different set of physics laws in place, in this experimental beaker.

This is a freeze so deep that the tree trunks begin to crack with resounding echoes through the forests, through the neighborhoods, like Zeus's lightning cracking overhead. The sap inside freezes so hard, contracting, that it actually cracks in a ripping apart of the interior of the tree trunk. The noise is so loud, you can hear it for miles. If the trees that are cracking happen to be in your yard, you jump and your heart stops for a second. You look outside through the blinds, peering into the dense ice fog, wondering "What the HELL was THAT?"

The air freezes. The fog is so dense, you can't see to drive. Several times each on three different news reports I have heard them say: Stay home. Stay off the roads. This is really bad.

I've never heard them make such a big deal out of the cold snap before. I was going to fire up the truck and return movies, get some more, check the mail, pick up a pizza. But, peanut butter works just as well...

This is the kind of crap my husband had to drive back and forth in, because he was considered "essential personnel" -- he kept the life blood of power flowing at a remote base out in the boonies, they all depended on his crew to provide electricity and warmth from the generators, just to stay alive. He had to go to work. And when his shift was over for the week, he just wanted to come home. He would be so tired, to the point of exhaustion from the stress of keeping constant vigil on the dials, monitoring for any quirk that could suddenly lose them their power, and I would beg him to wait, to take a nap, let the sun come up and warm up the air a little bit, please, I would beg him, please don't try to drive home in this temperature.

If the truck engine decided it was just too damned cold to work and it wanted to shut itself off, he would die out there inside of 2 hours' time, maybe less, and that would be with the life-saving emergency provisions that everyone must carry in their vehicles throughout winter, just for these occasions.

And my heart would stop beating after he called to let me know he was awake, tired of that place, he was leaving to come home -- and I don't think I would take a full breath till he walked in through the front door, two or three hours later, a slow, crawling pace home, blindly trying to follow a trucker's tail lights through the ice fog, through the mountain pass on slippery roads, one wrong step, a tap too hard on the breaks going around a curve, and he could slide off the side into a ditch, covered up by snow, disappeared. ***I let the dogs out this morning, they have to go, and it's not good for them to be out there in this, and I forgot to take a breath first, to hold it while the door was open. Great clouds of steamy fog roll in through the door as the warm air from the house rushes out, freezes instantaneously, then gets sucked back in. It's a vortex and you can't see through it and your glasses fog up and I breathed in and immediately started coughing. Too cold, too cold, the air is too frozen to breathe into the lungs. Stupid. I wasn't fully awake yet.

Stupid mistakes can cause a lot of trouble.

I don't know how those mushers do it, these are very often the same conditions they run their stupid races in and the dogs suffer so, several die each race, at least, their little feets are frozen solid, their little hearts just quit working because they have to pump so hard to make up for the cold air and just like a truck on the side of the road, they lay down and die.

Peanut butter will have to do and I will enjoy it.

I hold a warming and tender thought for all those who have to be out in this, the people reporting for duty, the birds and other animals, the minimum-wage earners who are told they will be fired if they don't show up for work, even though there won't be but a few making a trip around the drive-through today.

January 24, 2006

But you're not thereyou're not anywherethe outline of your bodyin the mud and leavesunder the trees you werecutting back from the roadis covered up by snowhard-packed ice andcrumbs from street sweepersclearing roadsof winter's nice feast

I wait for the sunto go to work clearing offthe white linen tablecloth to reveal the wood belowso your shape will come back to me

I will plant iris bulbs thereto remind me of your

stubbornness

January 24, 2006

***

I hang loose while my bones and joints freeze up in never-ending -40 below cold snap that has outlived its usefulness and it's erroneous nomenclature. It's past cold. It's past a snap.

I have to kick the bottom of the garage door loose from icy fingers so it will open when I tell it to.

I have to yank the door loose from the bottom rut which has been caulked into place by Jack Frost; try to carve the ice sculptures off the metallic closures on the door jamb and the knob, to get a grip so that I can yank.

The hydraulic fluid in the mechanism that keeps the screen door from slamming shut is frozen and ceased working, so the door slams shut, like an angry teenager, perpetually pissed off.

The walls are closing in because the cold radiating through the windows are like leaning up against the glass of frozen food section at the supermarket, as I type and there is no where to go in this house that does not have a cold draft ... I may have to turn up the heat, after all.

Nights, after the clouds part and the sky shines brilliant, shimmering in the Earth's heat, evaporating quickly that could be a desert mirage if it weren't so dark out, the temperature plummets to almost -50 and I struggle in vain with the throws on the couch to cover knees, toes, elbows and chin, even ears and I wonder how hard it would actually be to wrestle that damn 80-pound recliner away from the fireplace, so I could start a fire?

I started seeing a counselor. I will wait till the standing ovations dies down...

...

So far, we haven't gotten past the life history of Kate yet, I should be taping this for my memoirs.

"Any questions?"

"Yeah: when do we actually start working on that 'coping skills' part of the reason for my visits?"

Billable hours, Baby!

I'm finally seeing a counselor to learn how to cope with all this grief, dumped on me BAM BAM BAM -- three times in six freaking months -- one after the other, BAM BAM BAM it went ... might as well have been a Howitzer, in a muddy foxhole blasting out WWII ammo, while I stood there barefoot, covered in sticks and leaves and picking shrapnel out of my ass from the last year's collection.

After the Santa letters, after the funky Christmas, after the cold and the flu and the laundry from finally unpacking, the Reality set in -- and it wasn't pretty.

Not a damned bit pretty.

Reality is cold. Depression sucks the Life spirit right out of your chest. No where to run to, no where to hide ...

Face it: Life is a trip and a half.

And sometimes, you can almost see, as you're standing out on the porch, feeding the shivering birds leftover crumbs from the bread bag gone green with mold, the ghostly breath from trying to exhale in the dead of winter.

January 07, 2006

I was flying slow and low across the beautiful green landscape below in the basket of a helium balloon, red and yellow with shiny gold fabric shimmering in the setting sunlight, gathered up around the bottom of the balloon, draping down and tied around to disguise the leather straps holding the basket. I was standing next to a wookie-like gentleman warrior from another world, dressed in his finest uniform, probably Alex Simcoe in his 7' tall Ka D'Argo makeup and costume fromFarscape, which I have been hopelessly addicted to lately (the Australian sci-fi series, not the warrior ... although, there is something about all that hair,) and we both had fingers missing -- I'm assuming it was part of the ceremony -- but we did not seem to miss them as we held onto our golden goblets of some kind of special grog with one hand, holding onto each other's hands and the basket, gloved in shiny white gauze like spun silk, or a crafty creation by an enthusiastic spider's weave. We were smiling into the camera for our memorial portrait, presided over by the tiny king Rygel XVI, as the plowed acreage below swept by, tilled, planted, growing, smelling sweetly of new life, subconsciously stimulating my awareness that I can't wait to get started on my greenhouse already (jeeze, it's only January) and I woke up and thought -- what the hell...

...that codeine cough syrup is some awesome shit.

I'm flowing yellow rivers from the north and coughing up green swampy deltas from the south and working on my second box of kleenex now. But at least there's no stagnation. It's moving, finally, after a week.

I always get these damned colds that move down into my lungs, first from recycled airplane air full of kids screaming from ears popping and fatigue from being kept up to an ungodly hour in the middle of the night as the last red-eye comes flapping home, tired.

But it was so good to hear the lady right behind me, telling a scared newbie to her right "but it's a DRY cold," that I smiled to myself thinking of all the times in my youth I heard that about the heat in Texas, and indeed, when I stepped outside to the familiar ground covered in hard-packed ice and snow and took my first lungful of fresh air -- temperature 0 -- it was worth all the crying and screaming and sneezing back on the plane because ... I was home. And it didn't feel at all like a 50 degree temperature change, not to me.

After sweating all day and night in the rental car, planes and airports, I was glad to finally stop sweating and for the first time since I left, felt normal.

I crunched my way across the ice to the truck parked in long-term, right by the exit gates, still operating at 1 .m. by giddy money-takers who were cold out there and slammed their windows shut after every sentence, and started it up, no problem, it's a trooper, that truck, started the heater full blast on high/fan set to warp-speed velocity, and by the time I got my bag wrestled through a crowd of hundreds (man, that plane was crowded!) and returned to the truck, all the snow and ice had melted off the windshield, so I didn't even have to break out the ice scraper.

It was weird, after having just gone through the culture shock of being on so many freeways and main streets, crowded with cars and semis, a stop light at every corner that takes 5 minutes to go through their cycle before it's my turn ... to suddenly be back on a two-lane highway again, potholed from permafrost melting due to unseasonably warm arctic temperatures, lit with low sodium lights, as much as you could squeeze out of a boy scout flashlight, barely able to make out the road ahead in the blinding winter darkness, looking for moose, only seeing an occasional car out here and there, basically having the road to myself, all the way back home ... to MY house.

I'm going to miss this place. I bet no matter how hard I look throughout America this spring to find a new relocation, I will never find another place like this.

But what's up with the helium balloon? When I fly in my dreams, it is usually solo, unaided, swooping and diving under towers and high-tension wires, under bridges, over houses, over mountaintops, across the vast expanse of Mother Earth below, filled with the exhilaration of a child just about to burst into giggles ... not with some wookie-type character in a helium balloon.

That codeine is some strange shit.

Hey, it's Saturday! It's cartoon day! Maybe I'll put on Peter Pan and clean house, maybe even (gasp!) UNPACK! while I take many breaks, sipping on Vanilla Nut coffee, back for a return engagement at the local Safeway, still leftover from the holidays, now on sale to get rid of it. How I missed my 'Nillanut. And my goofy dogs.

I think Hunter caught my cold ... you ain't seen a sneeze like he can muster. I bet it could register on the Fujita Scale and is probably what caused all those freak January twisters in the Midwest last week.

I kept a diary while I was gone, but it is long and full of both sadness and miracles. I was tempted to recreate it here, but now am thinking perhaps a diary of private emotions and observations should be just that. Private.

There is no way to describe what I have gone through this past year, except to say: I'm glad it's a new year ... a new chance, new beginnings, time to sow new seeds of possibilities, ...

December 29, 2005

I'm home. I'm tired. But, it's a good tired. I'm sore, from running all day and night, between terminals, trying to catch the connecting flight. Thank goodness it was late or I would have ended up staying overnight in the airport. I would have shopped till I dropped in that marvelous Seattle mall-within-an-airport, in the Emerald City.

But I did catch the connecting flight, and Mom came with me, through a mix-up at the funeral home. I ended up claiming her remains just minutes before I was to hit the road to travel north to the airport and it was raining so hard, the fields and side roads were are all flooding; water danced down in glee from the hillsides, to splash into makeshift creeks, which overflowed the drains on the sides of the roads.

It was very wet out.

I could not find a place to scatter Mom's ashes where it was not pouring down rain and I could see my breath and my leather-soled shoes slipped a lot and I thought: You better just come home with me, for now.

She is sitting near Himself now and I imagine them catching up with each other, anxiously awaiting the Spring Road Trip we will make, all together, seeing America, leaving parts of themselves here and there, in the country they loved so much.

I hope they do not argue over who is to ride shotgun. Perhaps, in the interest of family harmony, they can take turns.

In the meantime, I need another nap before I go release the hounds from their kenneled hell. By then, it will be light out enough to see to drive without using the headlights and I won't have to watch for moose with the brights on. I will need as much help as possible, as the dogs will no doubt be sniffing me into their beings through through noses and sloppy kisses, over the seat, no matter how many times I tell them to sit down, please, before I wreck the truck.

Thank you everyone for your prayers and loving thoughts. I could feel you wrap me up in your arms and carry me through a bittersweet challenge. I'm sad but relieved. I never have to worry about Mom being in pain or mistreated, ever again.

Curious, that they both ended up in the living room... to keep me company through the most deadly frozen time of hard winter without any celebrations to distract me. I find comfort in that.

Seems fitting.

Mom always did want to see Alaska, she was just afraid of the cold. I have put her by the fireplace, wrapped in a soft, warm blanket.

Someone very kindly plowed the 3-foot accumulation of snow out of my driveway, while I was gone. And there are mooseprints, leading to two spots in front of the living room windows, where there used to be ornamental trees planted, but are just now short stubs.

December 25, 2005

By now, I imagine, everyone has seen what Santa left them under their sparkling trees.

I'm pecking away on a new laptop connected to High-speed Internet Access via a cable plugged into the wall that changes pages before I finish blinking. It's a miracle. Before I got the cable though, this thin metal podium had connected itself -- to the airwaves -- and it kind of spooked me, like a really good magic trick that catches the audience unaware. Magic!

I'm in a small, cheap motel room, in the middle of Oregon, in a small town, surrounded by emerald green meadows and fields, dark green pine trees covering the surrounding hills, landscape dotted with sheep, cows, goats, horses and the air smells fresh from its daily washing.

Last night the wind started to howl, mournfully, long, worried breathy voices, performing a midnight mass, a three-toned chant uttered by the ancient priests, filled in by heavenly hosts, all wearing the dark shrouds of mourning.

Sometimes, there was a solo and I looked out the window to see who was singing, but only saw the trees waving courtly, their stiff, spindly winter fingers trying not to break with the effort.

Next door is a man. He is a disabled Vet. He is homeless. As my daughter pulled up to let me off at my room after dinner on Thursday night, we saw him and the entirety of his worldly possessions, hanging off his walker in carefully organized plastic grocery bags, and he was struggling with the plastic card pre-programmed for one free night's lodging, courtesy of the Vet Center.

But, we didn't know any of that information yet. My initial reaction was one of annoyance and alarm -- was he breaking in? Was he going to squat in the room right next to mine? Tonight? I was tired and full of grief and good food.

My daughter was more alarmed and annoyed and drove me to the office to report him. The young girl who was the desk clerk looked alarmed at my reaction and explained why I, we, should have compassion, that "He PAID for his room," and I sighed, weary, saying okay, whatever, and told my daughter about him and that I would just tough it out, too tired, too tired and weary from two days exhaustive pace, to care.

"But did they have to put him right next to you? Are you sure you don't want me to pack you up and move you? You can come stay at my hotel." She was very weary herself, pregnant, chasing a three-year-old Terrorsaurus Wrecks all day.

I reminded her of all the work we had done to help the homeless and how she had helped me help them, standing right beside me, at varying heights of her development, reminded her how hard it was to stay dry in the winter, and look, here, now it was raining, hard, and we could see our breath and I told her under parking lot lights, that I would tough it out in my nice warm room with the lock on the door, with my overfull belly full of good warm food, and dry clothing, clean and new and smelling bouncy fresh, hoping she caught the drift of irony in my intent.

The man slept, exhausted, like the homeless are, who have no way to get a good night's rest, being rousted by the cops all night, keeping one eye open to make sure nobody is going to creep up and steal their stuff, or worse -- beat the crap out of them for finding themselves in the unfortunate circumstances of having no place to call home.

He keeps trying to take showers, but the plumbing is sounding like a tuba, tuning up, every time he turns on the faucet. Still, a tuning tuba with clean running water is probably a miracle in itself.

I felt terrible, immediately after I settled in. What the hell is wrong with me? I have worked with the homeless for decades, fed the hungry for longer than that... I should not be having these reactions of repulsion. I know these people. These are my people, my sisters and brothers and I have camped under bridges with them from time to time in my life. I know how hard it is to stay warm and dry, how humiliating it is to know that you smell bad but can't do anything about it, the frustration of trying to find a pair of dry socks.

The next morning, feeling worse, I walked to the office to get my coffee and I told the handsome Indian man with the graying temples, burning sacred incense he brought back from India, from his family's temple, I told him I behaved very badly the previous night. I asked how long the man next door to me was to stay ... one more night, he said ... somehow the vet had scored an additional evening's rest with clean running water.

I told him to make sure he stayed through Christmas, to put his room charges on my bill.

The disabled veteran will not be an animal this Christmas, not this year. He will have fresh sheets and clean towels and 100 cable channels of nuthin', just like me, and we will drink our bad coffee and think of Christmas past and I will play on my new toy, taking intermittent crying breaks which will be heard through the thin walls and he will serenade me with tuba solos.

***

I'm going to be checking in all day because there is nothing else to do in this small town. All the businesses are closed, so my plan to go spend the day at the movies, watching film after film, rose up as a mist to join the Oregon fog.

I'm missing my mom...

But ... there are miracles afoot, I can feel them all around me. Tiny presents thrown down from on high, wrapped up in ribbons and bows and fog and sometimes plastic grocery bags.

December 20, 2005

I'm coming to see you for the last time. I still have your pearls, the same ones you were wearing in this picture. I'm going to give them to your new granddaughter, soon, right after she is born, so she will have an heirloom born of your elegance and grace.

I hope you heard me singing to you this morning, on the phone, right before you left to go get a hug from Grandma.

I remember, when I was a little girl, you used to sing me a couple of your favorites.

"You are my SunshineMy only SunshineYou make me happyWhen skies are gray

You passed on to me your love for the Sun, with your Sun worshipping, your freckles, telling me not to be embarassed by mine, that they were "Sun Kisses."

I hope you are in its warmth now, closer, so your feet will never be cold again.

I'm coming to see you for the last time. Then I will carry you to the forests and scatter you on the moist mossy covered carpet of the place you grew to love so much.

I will leave you in the woods you adored, each day waiting for the Sun to find you, to warm you up for a few moments, before passing on to the next part of you. I will scatter you far, so the Sun will have many opportunities during each day, to find yet another facet of your beauty.